She was not a chatelaine
Who, attired in youthful graces,
Took the chair at tournaments,
And the laurel wreath presented.
Casuist in the laws of kisses
She was not, no doctrinaire,
Who within the learned college
Of a court of love gave lectures.
She the Rabbi was in love with
Was a poor and mournful loved one,
Woeful image of destruction,
And her name—Jerusalem!
In his early days of childhood
She his one sole love was always;
E’en the word Jerusalem
Made his youthful spirit quiver.
Purple flames were ever standing
On the boy’s cheek, and he hearken’d
When a pilgrim to Toledo
Came from out the far east country,
And recounted how deserted
And uncleanly was the city
Where upon the ground the traces
Of the prophets’ feet still glisten’d;
Where the air is still perfumed
By the’ undying breath of God—
“O the mournful sight!” a pilgrim
Once exclaim’d, whose beard was floating
White as silver, notwithstanding
That the hair which form’d its end
Once again grew black, appearing
As if getting young again.
And a very wondrous pilgrim
Might he be, his eyes were peering
As through centuries of sorrow,
And he sigh’d: “Jerusalem!
“She, the crowded holy city,
“Is converted to a desert,
“Where wood-devils, werewolves, jackals
“Their accursèd home have made.